Outcasts and Outlands
by Jacob Flood
Summary: Three adventures contained in one story, each with increasing amounts of (original) characters and chaos. First, one of the Dragonborn's old foes is out for revenge. Second, an assassin and a madman sow mayhem as the Emperor approaches Skyrim. Third, a horrid incursion is imminent, but the only ones who can prevent it are left scrambling after false clues and distractions.
1. Prologue: Meeting of Minds

_~Author's Note: This story was originally published on a different account of mine, under the title 'Adventures with the Dragonborn'. It has since been taken down and revised; that account is now dead. This is, in effect, a second draft. Several things have been changed, mostly to make the three stories hopefully more cohesive. Overall, the larger arc remains the same, but the numerous errors have (also hopefully) been fixed. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

Many years later, sitting around a charred table with a mismatched group, Dar'epha would relate the story of how she met the Dragonborn. Before beginning, she would delay, scratching at her nose and pretending there was something between her teeth in urgent need of extraction. Eventually, she would begin. Before long, she would be smiling.

* * *

"… and there I was, the place fillin' up with guards faster'n any of you've ever seen, the captain hisself on his way, my cover completely blown, with only seconds to go before the prospect of bein' clapped in irons and led to the block would be the only option."

Dar'epha leaned back in her chair, savouring the reactions of her audience. Erik was a little slack-jawed, his eyes wide and his hands grasping the edge of the table. Sam wore a small smirk, his eyebrows raised in what could have been disbelief. The amiable Breton hadn't called her out on any of her exaggerations yet, but she gave him no time for them nonetheless.

"So what did you do?" cut in Erik. The inn owner's son was clearly relishing any second-hand experience of the world outside Rorikstead that he could bend his ears towards. A big Nord, but with the face and actions closer to that of a child.

Dar'epha folded her paws behind her head, using the movement to pull back the hood of her disguise: that of a Vigilant of Stendarr, filched from one staying Solitude while he'd slumbered. It had seen her all the way to the Frostfruit Inn without any trouble. The guards didn't like to bother the Vigilants if they could help it.

"I climbed my way up the shelves and hid myself in the rafters," she said. "And let me tell you, I'm still pickin' those Gods-damned splinters out of my fur."

She was about to follow it up with a titbit of a tale about how she'd rubbed the theft in the guard captain's face afterwards, but it was then that the inn's door opened and a gust of the night wind shivered over their table. Following it was a figure like nothing she'd seen before. They wore a mismatched selection of armour: high-quality ebony breastplate that seemed to suck in the light from around it; spiked gauntlets of an orcish make; and worn boots of simple iron that made no sound as they trod across the floorboards. But it was their helm that received the most attention from the patrons of the inn, for it was carved in the likeness of Clavicus Vile, curved horns protruding from the forehead. An evil-faced mace was at their hip and on their left arm was an odd convex shield that looked like it had been dug out of Dwemer ruin.

Dar'epha was prepared for trouble, one hand dropping towards one of her daggers, considering perhaps that this figure was a crazy daedra worshipper, or some advanced variety of Forsworn. She'd also pegged them for an orc, given their large build. But the removal of that horrid helmet revealed a woman of Breton origin, her brown hair cut messily short, and her expression not unfriendly.

Sam rose from his seat and bounded towards the newcomer. After some conversation Dar'epha couldn't quite hear and a very careful handshake, the woman joined the others at their table. Sam's grin was wide as the woman sat down.

"Erik, Dar'epha, we are truly in illustrious company tonight. This is—"

But he got no further, for Erik spoke. "I know who you are," he said, awe creeping onto his face. "I was in Whiterun when that dragon got released. You're the one who killed Alduin. You're the Dragonborn." There was silence around the table.

"Please," said the hero of the songs, "none of that Dovahkiin business. Call me Gylhain. It is my name after all."

Dar'epha tried to get her mouth working again. She'd heard the stories, of course, everyone had. How she'd ridden a dragon, how she'd walked the halls of Sovngarde, how she'd united the Companions, how she'd massacred her way out of Cidhna Mine.

"I thought you were helpin' the Legion with the war," she managed to say eventually. "Can't imagine that's won you a bunch of new friends."

Gylhain's brow furrowed. "Just doing what I think is right. The Stormcloaks may have admirable passion for their homeland, but that's not going to help when the Dominion comes knocking. And I'm perfectly placed to pressure Elisif to push some reforms through that'll help everyone in Skyrim."

Dar'epha had heard of that last bit spoken of among the downtrodden. The Dunmer, Khajiit, and Argonians of Skyrim were beginning to regard this figure as somewhat of a hero. She couldn't help but smile. An intelligent, well-spoken foreign woman? No wonder she was such a divisive figure. The Stormcloaks would do well to fear her. Dar'epha suddenly wanted to see for herself whether the Dragonborn could fight as well as the stories claimed.

Erik looked to be on the verge of a poorly framed rebuttal, when Sam spoke again.

"Enough politics," he said. "How about something more interesting? A drinking contest, perhaps?" He looked pointedly at Gylhain. Erik excused himself quickly, muttering something about seeing how his father was getting along. Gylhain looked directly at Dar'epha, who felt suddenly less secure in herself than ever before.

"I'm game if you are, Vigilant," said the Dragonborn.

Dar'epha chuckled, remembering her Guild uniform beneath the robes. "Yeah, I'm in."

Sam clapped his hands with joy and called out for the finest drinks to be brought and added to his tab. Dar'epha sat back, scrutinising Gylhain's face, and waited for the night to truly begin.

* * *

When Dar'epha awoke nothing existed but hazy filtered light, the world rendered thickly yellow. With a fumble she tore off her stolen hood, which had been yanked down over her eyes. The sky was a uniform grey. It felt like late morning, but she knew not of what day. Her back and legs were rent with aches, as she was slumped against something pitted and stony. It was, in fact, Gjukar's Monument, which she recognised from previous travels.

Squinting upwards, she tried to gain hold of any memory of the previous night. Nights? The rest of her Vigilant robes were tied in a sash around her waist, revealing her Guild armour. Her gloves were sticky with something, and there were flakes of ash and bread tangled in her braids, most of which were unsalvageable. She spent several minutes tugging them all free, her hair back to its loose state. She left the robes in tatters by the monument.

Despite its greyness, the sky seemed too bright to her and a dull thudding became noticeable at the back of her skull. Stumbling upwards, she headed north-west until she hit the road, not intent on heading anywhere in particular, but distantly knowing that Rorikstead was not that far away.

Rounding a corner just outside of town, she encountered Gylhain standing over the body of a giant. The woman was hunched over, her arms wide, edging towards a goat that was shying close to the corpse. Noticing Dar'epha, she smiled and held up a hand as a waiting signal. The Dragonborn darted forward. In a flurry of movement, she had the goat tucked under one arm. She seemed none the worse for wear, her movements and mannerisms unaffected by what they had undergone.

"Morning!" exclaimed Gylhain. "Some night, huh? Where did you end up?"

Dar'epha gestured without interest back the way she'd come. She found herself smiling despite the pain in her head. "What… what are you doin'?"

"Seems there was a misunderstanding with a farmer and this here goat and this here giant as a result of our actions last night. I'm trying to resolve everybody's grievances, but this fellow wasn't listening to reason."

"Right…" Dar'epha was momentarily lost for words. Rubbing her brow, she said, "Passing over that you killed a giant with no trouble, d'you remember anythin' from last night? I've a hunch it might've been more than just a bit crazy."

"And I've a hunch it was a few nights strung together," came Gylhain's reply. "But no, I don't remember anything solid. Sorry."

Dar'epha rolled her shoulders and emitted a low grunt. "S'pose this ain't the first time this has happened to you?"

Gylhain laughed, the shaking movement causing the goat under her arm to bleat a little. "Kind of goes with the territory, doesn't it?" She paused for a moment, frowning. "I do have a vague recollection of you pulling off some amazing throws with those daggers, though." She gestured at Dar'epha's twin glass blades, miraculously still at her belt. "You any good with a bow?"

"Sure," shrugged Dar'epha. "Though I ain't had my paws on one in a while."

A hopeful smile broke out across Gylhain's face. "There's a ruin to the north I've been meaning to take a look into for a while now. Do you want to come with me? I can always use someone competent along."

Dar'epha gave a surprised frown. She wasn't used to this sort of offer. There was always a betrayal at the end, her 'partners' playing her for a sucker or leaving her to take the fall. Things had looked up since she'd joined the Guild, though, and she didn't want to blow that winning streak. But the Dragonborn wouldn't be in it for the gold, and—by reputation at least—didn't seem the type to engage in a spot of betrayal. Although despite helping people in every hold, she was known for being somewhat flippant with the law; if anything, that endeared her to Dar'epha even more. She decided to take the risk.

"Explore a dangerous ruin with someone I barely know? Count me in!"

The Dragonborn's grin was infectious, and Dar'epha found herself echoing the expression.

"Brilliant!" exclaimed Gylhain. "I have to return this goat and see if I can find Sam, but we could meet in Dragon's Bridge in… say, four or five days? You've probably got some Guild business to wrap up first, right?"

Dar'epha started a little. "How did you know I'm in the Guild?"

Gylhain was still smiling. "You're new, right? I did them a favour a while back, they keep me in the loop. Plus, your armour is a dead giveaway."

"You did them a favour?" Dar'epha asked. The Dragonborn had worked with or for the Thieves Guild and nobody had thought to mention it to her? "I ain't heard anything about that."

Gylhain's smile lessened a small amount. "If you're interested, ask Brynjolf about what happened to Mercer Frey. He knows it better than anyone."

Dar'epha sighed. Always more stories. "Dragon's Bridge, then?"

"Yes. See you there." The Dragonborn crouched to pick up her helmet, tucked that under the other arm, and turned north towards Rorikstead, off to see a man about a goat.


	2. Out of Windhelm

They delved into the ruins and then some. Over the following three months, Dar'epha and Gylhain took Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, and the Pale by storm. They cleared caves and ancient places of all sorts, slayed vampires, trolls, draugr, and even a few Falmer during a tense expedition into the Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft. They'd run short of food and been forced to turn back before they could get to what Gylhain wanted to show her new friend: Blackreach. She promised there'd be another time.

The personal highlight for Dar'epha had been, when exploring the coast north-west of Dawnstar, they'd found a half-submerged shipwreck and spent a joyful few days diving through the freezing water for the sunken cargo. They found little of value, but it didn't matter. On the last day there, as they emerged from the water, they encountered a snow bear, and they were forced to frantically grab their gear and flee in their underclothes. Gylhain later lit a fire with one of her dragon shouts to get the chill out of their bones.

Sadly, it couldn't last. While drinking one evening at the Nightgate Inn, planning on heading north into Winterhold, a courier had burst in from the cold. Somehow, General Tullius had tracked down Gylhain, and they needed her for another push in the war. They could have ordered her, she had formally enlisted in the Legion and was therefore bound by military hierarchy, but clearly they felt some respect was due to the Dragonborn. Regardless, Gylhain had to leave. With a quick smile and an open invitation to her house in Whiterun, she was gone.

Dar'epha went back to the Guild, losing herself in job after job, crime after crime. Gylhain got married, to someone named Angi. They took up residence in Honeyside in Riften. Dar'epha would drift in to visit occasionally, despite the internal sharpness she'd felt upon hearing of the matrimony. But with the civil war still in full swing, Gylhain was never around, and Dar'epha would end up dining with Angi, sometimes in addition to the Dragonborn's housecarl, Iona. Angi was a practical woman, hardy and sometimes taciturn, but Dar'epha enjoyed her company nonetheless.

Eventually, word filtered down to Riften that the civil war was over; the siege of Windhelm was broken and Ulfric Stormcloak had been slain by the Dragonborn herself. As soon as Delvin had ascertained there was work for them in that city, Dar'epha had got herself on a job there, hoping to run into Gylhain still lingering in the fallen stronghold.

Things had not gone according to plan.

* * *

Dar'epha was entering her second evening in Windhelm's jail. At first she'd taken it as an excuse for a rest, dozing in the hay provided, pulling faces at the guard, trading insults with the half-drunk Dunmer in the next cell. Despite the absence of Gylhain from the city, the job itself had gone off without a hitch; it was what had happened on her way out that had gone sour.

Viola Giordano had been in the Grey Quarter again, spouting her anti-Dunmer babble. With none of the elves brave enough to talk back, knowing the guards would come down hard on them if they made even the tiniest move towards a Nord, it had fallen to Dar'epha. She'd lashed out, her claws raking at Viola's face.

She'd thought nothing of it, left the racist scum staggering in disbelief in the snow. But two hired thugs had tried to corner her behind the stables before she could leave. Cheap to hire and thus easy to dispatch. But there was a principle at stake. Storming back into the city, she'd found Viola easily enough, complaining loudly to a guardsman about her assault. From a distance, Dar'epha had taken out one of her daggers and let fly. Unfortunately, in her rage she had failed to take good account of her footing, and at the last second her boot slipped on the icy stones. The dagger landed in Viola's shoulder instead of her neck, and Dar'epha soon found herself surrounded by Imperial guards. Bitterly she decided to surrender and bide her time; if there was a prison that could hold her, then she wasn't worthy of her Guild membership.

The room outside the cells contained nothing more than a stack of hay, in case any of the cellmates needed new bedding, and one solitary guard in one solitary chair. He was dozing in the dreariness of his current post. Reaching her hand into her braided hair, Dar'epha retrieved what she'd stashed there earlier: one lockpick. One was all she needed.

Time, then, to escape. Besides, the prison-issue clothes were beginning to irritate her fur. She went to work on the lock, glancing up at the guard every few seconds to ensure he hadn't woken up. Lockpicking was one of Dar'epha's primary skills, and it wasn't long before she had a paw on a door-bar, ready to pull it open. Unfortunately for her escape plan, as the door swung inwards it made a highly audible scraping sound. The guard bolted into wakefulness, his eyes wide. He stood and drew his sword in one motion, reacting fast to the situation. But Dar'epha was faster.

She rushed out of the cell, keeping low, and before the guard could get in a swing she'd swiped his legs out from under him. Still moving faster than almost any human could hope to, she sidestepped his falling body and delivered a whack to the back of the guard's head. The increased speed at which the head in question hit the stone floor was enough to blast him into unconsciousness. Dar'epha hoped that his helmet had protected him from the worst; the Guild had a thing about killing that she understood and abided by despite not fully agreeing with.

The Dunmer in the other cell had also come awake at the sound of the scraping door, and now made himself known.

"There's no way you can make it out of here alive, you know." His voice was low and even, filled with defeat and loss.

Dar'epha hefted the guard's sword and jingled the prison keys in her other paw. "So you won't be wantin' me to let you out then?"

The Dunmer tapped his fingers against the bars. "Why? They'd cut me down and say I asked for it. Better to just serve my time. That way I can see my family again."

"Sooner or later you're gonna have to take a stand 'gainst these Nords," said Dar'epha.

"Perhaps," replied the Dunmer. "But not today."

"Now's your best time!" she exclaimed, feeling a rising anger at the dark elf's defeatist attitude. "Ulfric's dead, but this damn town's not gonna get better unless you push for it."

The Dunmer frowned. "What should we do?" he asked. "Go around throwing daggers at civilians?"

"Huh. She was askin' for it."

"You cannot understand our plight," said the prisoner. "If you are going, do so. And if you work a miracle and escape this place, fare you well."

Dar'epha grunted with some respect, or as much as she was capable of. "Same to you," she said.

She turned away: the time had come for her to quit the prison, and all of Eastmarch if she had her way. Which, of course, she would. She advanced towards the exit, opened the door and cautiously made her way up the corridor towards the barracks. The next part of her escape plan pretty much hinged on pure luck: if there were too many guards in their barracks, she knew she would be cut down or subdued before finding an exit.

But the Divines must have smiled on Dar'epha that day, for when she entered the room it was completely empty. Almost unable to believe her luck, she went to work. There was only one door—other than the one she'd just come through—and that led straight into the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. Bursting out in front of Jarl Brunwulf and his assorted guards and guests wouldn't go down too well, she thought. So she consigned herself to the only other option: out one of the windows.

Dropping the stolen sword on a bed, she then dragged that bed across to block the door and prevent an untimely interruption. Panting with the effort, she turned to examine if there was anything of use in the room she could take with her. Her sharp eyes immediately picked out a large chest in one corner. In it she discovered her confiscated belongings: her Guild outfit, thankfully unblemished, at least, no more than it had been already; a small and unfortunately light coin pouch; the shipping manifests that had been the target of her job; and only one glass dagger. Although she was put out at having only one of her favoured weapons, she got a chuckle out of imagining the other still embedded in Viola's shoulder.

She quickly stripped off the ragged prison robes and donned her Guild armour. The dagger went through her belt, the coin pouch and manifests were tucked away in various pockets. Then, it was time for Dar'epha to leave.

She took a wooden bowl from one of the guard's bedside tables and hurled it through the window closest to the way she'd come in. The glass shattered easily, and within two seconds, Dar'epha had leapt up from a bed to the sill and, taking a quick look, she managed the high fall with ease, landing on all fours.

Dashing her hopes that the exit would somehow land her in the docks, instead she found herself in the courtyard in front of the palace. A location in full view of the guards standing at their posts on either side of the doors. She made a mental note to ask Delvin if the Guild could compile some sort of list of how to escape each hold's jail in the most convenient way.

One of the guards shouted, "By the order of the—"

But Dar'epha was already moving and heard no more. Her feet moved faster across the stones than she thought they'd ever moved before, faster than when she escaped the giants at Guldun Rock, faster than when she'd seen her first dragon. Rounding Candlehearth Hall, she heard more guards behind her and tried to pick up her pace. She slid through the city doors, getting through in just enough time to dodge an arrow, which instead rebounded off the metal.

Out of Windhelm, but not out of trouble. On the bridge she espied more guards advancing from the other end. But there was still a way, always a way, but not one she would have normally considered in any other circumstance.

"To Oblivion with the lot of you," she growled. Then, in one short leap she had climbed the stairs leading up to the precipice. Curling her toes over the edge as the guards closed in, she jumped.

* * *

About half an hour later, after the guards had given up on shooting arrows down into the dark water and gone back to the warmth of their watch-fires, Alfarinn the carriage driver was surprised to encounter a shivering and very bedraggled Khajiit stumbling up to his vehicle.

"I'll pay you double," she said, "just get me to Riften, fast."

Alfarinn had learned long ago not to ask questions of his clients.

"Climb in," he said. "There's a blanket in the back, looks like you might need it."

"Thanks."

As she'd hit the surface of the White River and gone down, Dar'epha had decided what she was going to do. It had been too long since she'd gotten into a scrape with a certain pretty Breton woman alongside. It was time she paid a visit to her old friend the Dragonborn.


	3. Trail of the Dovahkiin

The sun was high when Dar'epha reached Riften, rattled and bruised from the journey, but she could not see that light source through the thick cloud that hung over the city. She had not been able to get the chill out of her extremities, but she left the blanket in the back of the carriage and paid Alfarinn more than what she owed him—which amounted to everything piece of coin she had left. There would always be more to steal somewhere else.

She had him drop her off not outside the gate, but further along to the west, close to the lake. Hugging her arms in close to her body, she climbed the exterior stairs up towards Honeyside. There was no need to knock, as Gylhain's housecarl, Iona, was on the balcony at the tanning rack, working at a fresh wolf pelt. Reluctantly taking her eyes off her work, the woman smiled at Dar'epha.

"Run into a little trouble?" she asked.

The Khajiit shivered a little without meaning to. She forced a small laugh. "I guess you could say that, yeah."

Iona chuckled. She wiped her hands and pulled a strand of her red hair out of her eyes. Her clothes were simple and her hardy boots worn from the road, but her face was bright and happy. If this was not the life she had wanted, she gave no sign of it.

"Come inside," she said. "Angi's got a stew on."

Angi's cooking was the best Dar'epha had encountered in Skyrim or anywhere. Her chills forgotten, she followed Iona into the home. Shying quickly through the main bedroom, they turned the corner and found Angi over the fire, face creased as she concentrated on her work. When she saw Dar'epha, however, she smiled and pulled her into an embrace.

"Always good to have you safe back in Riften," said the Dragonborn's wife. They'd met, as far as Dar'epha could ascertain, somewhere in the mountains near Falkreath, where Angi had been living alone in a hut. Why had never been explained, at least not to Dar'epha. But the woman was a mean archer, and Dar'epha had on a couple of occasions seen her pull off a shot that would put her own skills to shame.

When they were seated around the table, Dar'epha related, inbetween gulps of stew, the story of what had occurred in Windhelm. Angi smiled and frowned at all the appropriate points, but Iona was more critical.

"You needn't have resorted to violence," she said. "Even someone like Viola can listen to reason."

Angi gave a bitter chuckle. "That sort never does. Only cure is a bit of something sharp." She frowned for a moment. "Though it is probably best that you didn't kill her."

"I didn't know you knew anybody from Windhelm," wondered Iona.

"I don't," came Angi's reply. "But I know that type." There was silence at the table until she said, "I guess that means you won't be taking in jobs in Windhelm for a while, then?"

"Not if I can damn well help it," mumbled Dar'epha through a mouthful. She swallowed heavily. "Actually, I was looking for Gylhain."

"You and everybody else," grumbled Iona, setting about clearing the table.

"What d'you mean?"

Angi answered. "We haven't seen her for a week or so. She came home after the war ended, spent some time, but she was restless. She was talking about moving somewhere else, wouldn't say where."

Dar'epha raised her eyebrows. "But this place is fuckin' marvellous!"

It was true. Gylhain and Angi, with Iona's help, had turned Honeyside into the finest home Dar'epha had ever seen. There was warmth within those walls, comfort to be found of the darkest and coldest of nights.

"That's what I told her," agreed Iona.

Angi was looking down at the table, running her fingers across the thick wood. "I don't know," she said. "She talked about wanting to move out of the city, somewhere away from it all. But she had to go see Tullius, some honour ceremony for her services to the Legion. We haven't heard from her yet, but you know her, she disappears all the time. Just sit tight, she'll turn up eventually."

"Probably just found some wrongs that needed rightin'," said Dar'epha.

"Exactly. You should lay low after Windhelm anyway."

Dar'epha chuckled. "Yeah, right." She eased herself up from the table and stretched, feeling the aches of the job assert themselves.

"I gotta check in with the Guild," she said. "Cheers for the stew."

Their farewells were short; there was always the knowledge that Dar'epha would be back soon enough for more meals and tall tales. Out the other door she went, and into the glorious web of alliances and betrayals that was Riften. Under new leadership since the end of the war; Maven Black-Briar now sat on the Jarl's throne. To the benefit of the Guild, was the talk beneath the city. Dar'epha was more sceptical. That woman worked only towards her own ends and would be more than happy to cast aside the Guild if such an action served her purposes.

Dar'epha moved through the market, nodding and smiling at those her organisation was on good terms with, ignoring those with who they weren't. Soon she was at the hidden entrance to the cistern and had slipped down the ladder to her comrades in crime.

She smiled at Sapphire—probably her closest friend in the Guild—clapped Niruin on the back, and progressed smiling through to the Ragged Flagon. Despite the dim light, she always found a sense of warmth in the Guild's hideout. Filled with people from all walks of life; all of them sharing a common disregard for the law. As good a family as Dar'epha could have found anywhere. Still, there was no Gylhain. The Dragonborn had done some work for the Guild before Dar'epha's time (something to do with a previous leader, as far as Dar'epha could discern), but was now barely considered a member, only popping down when she had something nice to fence. Some of the newer Guild members knew nothing of Gylhain's connection at all.

In the Flagon, Dirge was arguing loudly with Vekel over some trifle, Vex watching on with the faint hint of a smile on her face. It faded as soon as the senior member noticed Dar'epha's watching eyes.

Dar'epha went straight for Delvin. The shipping manifests that had been the target of her job in Windhelm had survived her fall into the White River, thanks to being wrapped in oilskin. She sat opposite him and slid the manifests over, unable to keep the smirk of a successful job off her face.

"Everything go well?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Prob'ly best I don't head back there for a while."

He chuckled. "We were wonderin' what was takin' you so long."

She waved it aside with a paw. "Any sign of Gylhain?" she asked. "Angi said it's been a good week since she's been home."

"Ain't unusual, you know," was Delvin's reply.

"Yeah, I know. Still."

It was Delvin's turn to shrug. "Talk to Brynjolf, he might know somethin' I don't. Unlikely as that may sound."

Dar'epha smiled, thanked him, and rose. Brynjolf was back in the cistern, hunched over the Guild Master's desk, trying to make sense of a sheaf of papers. He looked up at Dar'epha with shining eyes, obviously grateful for the distraction.

"What can I do for you, lass?" he asked. "Locks still slippin' open under your delicate touch?"

"Always. You heard anythin' of Gyl? I was hopin' to see her."

Brynjolf shook his head. "Nothin' on my end, lass. There was word of some disturbances over in Whiterun, though, I wouldn't be surprised if she had somethin' to do with that."

Dar'epha frowned. "What sort of disturbances?" She didn't know whether that was Guild code for something she was unfamiliar with.

Brynjolf scratched at his beard a moment before continuing. "I didn't want to tell Angi for worryin' her. But word is, the guards turned up some bodies at Gyl's house there. No sign of the lass herself, though."

Dar'epha chewed this over. Corpses turning up where Gylhain was involved was certainly nothing unusual, and she was uniquely suited to handling any trouble of that sort. There was also no shortage of groups—despite the aid she'd given across the land—that would like nothing better than to see her own corpse laid out on a funeral slab. Probably no cause for worry, but Dar'epha probably would anyway, a small amount, down at her core where nobody could see.

"Might head out there," suggested Dar'epha. "If you've got nothin' for me here, that is."

Brynjolf looked in despair at the papers in front of him. "There's a caravan raid I'd like you on," he said. "But that's still bein' set up. Plenty of time for you be restin' up."

"In Gyl's company? Not likely."

Brynjolf gave a small laugh. "If you do find her, tell her to come by for a visit sometime soon."

Before she turned away, Dar'epha thought of another question.

"These bodies, how long ago did they turn up?"

"Four, maybe five days," said Brynjolf. "Accordin' to my information, anyway."

"Reliable?"

Brynjolf tilted his hand back and forth in a way that signified _maybe, maybe not._

She drifted away, towards the chest at the foot of her bed. She picked the lock—the strongest she could find, to keep her in practice—and removed a small pouch of coins. There was no telling what expenditures could arise in a world outside of Guild jobs; those were predictable: bribery, specialist supplies, lookouts, security, and so on. With Gylhain, however, the future was always less certain.

Dar'epha shot up the ladder back into Riften, hoping that Alfarinn and his carriage were still around.


End file.
